


Wear Your Rue

by irisbleufic



Series: The Ground Beneath My Feet [2]
Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare, In the Flesh (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Disabled Character, Canon Queer Character, Disability, Established Relationship, F/M, Flashbacks, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Loss, M/M, Partially Deceased Syndrome, Post-Canon, Post-Series, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-10
Updated: 2014-10-10
Packaged: 2018-02-20 15:36:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2433971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Kieren thinks of Amy in her burial clothes, lying still and quiet with stargazers in her hair.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wear Your Rue

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the same universe as [**_Shatter_**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2398187), but can be read as a stand-alone. Anyone familiar with [**_Actions We Might Play_**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1065723) and [**Anthology #22: _Defying Augury_**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1075605/chapters/3285248) is going to understand exactly why they should treat this like armed explosives. Almost every pairing in my backlog to date has gotten a crack at touching [this particular scene from _Hamlet_](http://nfs.sparknotes.com/hamlet/page_300.html) in some context or another.

Using oil pastels to sketch your _unbelievably_ morgeous lover is all fun and games till he chucks his book on the floor and tells you to join him on the fucking bed already because your fifteen minutes are _up_.  Kieren sighs and wipes his hands on his jeans, but it's no use; his skin's not as dry as he'd grown accustomed to it being, but it's porous enough to suck in art-supply smudges like mousse.

"When I said you had a colorful personality, I didn't mean you should wax _literal_ about it," says Simon, teasingly; this is the widest Kieren's seen him smile since the funeral almost a week ago. It's Thursday, December nineteenth, and they've spent today in the Walker household because Kieren's parents had sent so many plaintive texts since Sunday afternoon that nonstop sex and and sleep have ceased to seem like great ideas. 

Kieren sighs and shoves the paper aside, getting to his stocking feet; it's chilly in his room, and they can both perceive it.  Simon holds back the duvet till Kieren's climbed onto the mattress and settled beside him.  Snogging is _instantaneous_.

"You may _look_ all brooding and mature," replies Kieren, between kisses, when he can get a word in edgewise, "but your sense of humor suggests you're fifteen, and that's being generous."

"I can't keep my hands off you, so that might suggest the same," says Simon, sucking at Kieren's neck until Kieren gasps at the sting of freshly jump-started circulation.  "Why ruin a good thing?"

"Dinner's going to be ready in like five minutes," Kieren warns him, but makes no move to prevent Simon from working his hands down the back of Kieren's pants, "and _you're_ going to be—"

"I'm going to be feeling you up till I've no choice otherwise," Simon murmurs, content to be nipping at Kieren's earlobe and kneading his arse as they find an awkward rhythm in the narrow bed. Kieren can scarcely breathe for how good it feels, this waking up, this sense of _belonging_. 

Kieren's never belonged anywhere in his life, but now, in death and beyond, he finally loves his ground.  They'll make it out of Roarton in time, he's sure, but what's most important in the here and now is that Simon's lifted up just enough to get their trousers undone.  Kieren is pinned under Simon's weight; neither one of them's leaking this time, but he's hard already and Simon's belly is _warm—_

"Jem!" Sue shouts from downstairs.  "Simon!  _Kieren_!  Soup's on, loves, and your dad's cross!"

"I'm _coming_ , Mum!  Jesus!" Jem shouts in the hall, hammering on Kieren's door as she passes.

"That's rather a low blow, ain't it?" remarks Simon, breathlessly.  As distracted as Kieren has been these past few seconds, his skin feels prickly, and the warmth pooled between them _snaps_ when Simon chokes, "Kieren, oh, _Kier_."  He comes, a full-body shudder, and Kieren follows.

"I don't think this is going to wash out on short notice," Kieren pants, studying his hand and the smears he's left on Simon's forearm and rolled-up sleeve.  He kisses Simon's palm and drops his hand on the bed, taking a moment to rest.  "Mum and Dad won't comment, but Jem.  _Well_."

It's ten minutes before they've got their clothing set to rights and start down the stairs; Sue, Steve, and Jem are already seated in the dining room, but nobody's started to eat.  Kieren mumbles an apology, eyes lowered, as Simon pulls out the nearest chair for him on the computer-side of the table.  Kieren sits down, and Simon follows, nodding sheepishly to everyone. 

They haven't been in this dining room since the wake, and suddenly it feels far too close, too numbingly _immediate_. Amy Dyer would have diffused this situation in one swift pulse of her newly-beating heart. Kieren stares at his parents' collection of masks on the wall.

"There we are, lads," says Steve, cheerily, as Simon takes his seat beside Kieren.  "What's this I hear about you lot having tea now and eating a bit, then?  Your mum's made this special.  Tuck in."

"It looks delicious," says Simon, his tone effortlessly genuine.  "We'll try it, won't we, Kier?"

Sue blushes and ducks her head, but her lowered eyes can't hide the hope welling up in them.

"Yeah, for _him_ he will," Jem mutters, forcefully stabbing a roasted parsnip.  "But not for Mum."

"Oi, what's got into you?" Steve demands, passing her the gravy.  "It's nice to have your brother and, _ah_ —his—Simon here, isn't it?  Just like a real family again.  Does the heart some good."

Kieren cuts off a miniscule shred of the slice of lamb his mother's just put on his plate, and, even roasted to melting perfection, it feels strange, tastes _alien_ to his nonetheless interested tongue.  He nearly chokes on it in an attempt to swallow, and, under the table, Simon touches his hand.

"Look at you," Jem says to Kieren.  "Is it 'cause they all treat you like the princess you are?"

"Jemima, this _instant_!" Sue demands.  " _Stop_.  If you're that stressed about exams, _say_ so."

"Mum, you've put too much rosemary," Kieren says, trying to lighten the mood.  He glances at Simon.

Simon nods and adds, "That's not a bad thing, though. Adds a bit of kick, given our tongues are dull."

"That's for remembrance," Jem mutters under her breath.  "Forgot poor Amy already, have we?"

Kieren thinks of Amy in her burial clothes, lying still and quiet with stargazers in her hair.

"You're reading _Hamlet_?" asks Simon, kindly, regarding Jem with interest.  "It's on the test?"

"Yeah, and it's the most bloody _boring_ shite on the face of the planet," Jem moans, and Kieren can't help but roll his eyes at how much she enjoys pulling a strop when she's got a captive audience.

"I never thought that play was boring," says Sue, testily, and it's obvious she's had it up to _here_ with Jem's taking-the-piss behavior.  "It's an action flick, a _ghost story_.  Shakespeare knew his stuff."

"Oh, so you don't mind when it's _this one_ ten minutes late because he's been havin' it off with his boyfriend upstairs," Jem retorts, "but I can't even whinge about a stupid _dead playwright_ —"

Simon goes noticeably tense, his upper arm pressing against Kieren's.  PDS habits die even harder, _et cetera_.

"Uh, Jem, it's called _artistic license_ ," Kieren shoots back, showing off his pastel-smeared hands.  "Grow up."

"If I remember anything from school," muses Steve, philosophically, "readin' it out loud helps."

"Then it's settled," Sue declares, turning her stern gaze on all three of the young people at her table in turn.  "Kieren and Simon will help you study after dinner.  Steve and I will anticipate a dramatic reading at nine o'clock.  No ifs, ands, or _buts_ , young lady.  Your brother and Simon are fine."

"This is complete _bollocks_ ," Jem moans, picking up her plate, and storms into the living room.  "I'll be out here waitin' while you lot push your food around like the _useless_ undead tarts you are!"

"It's a step up from rotters, innit?" asks Steve, hopefully, but the look Sue gives him has his eyes trained on the napkin in his lap inside a second.  "She's upset, Kier.  She liked that Amy, you know."

"We all liked Amy," says Simon, in that soothing, I'm-a-Disciple-and-you-should-listen-now voice.  "We all _loved_ her, and the pain of her absence isn't leaving any time soon.  Roarton needs to heal."

They make it through the rest of the meal with a few bites of lamb and parsnips and a cup of tea each.  Sue and Steve natter on about what good was salvaged from the fête, but Kieren isn't sufficiently distracted from thoughts of their friend.  Anger and irritation weighs on him now, inextricably tangled in his grief; exactly _where_ does Jem get off thinking she has more right . . . ?

"Mum, where d'you keep your Complete Works?" demands Kieren, rising from his chair.  

Sue is saying something about the bookshelf, and he's not really listening, because that's where he's headed anyway.  He yanks the tome down by its deteriorating spine and sticks it under his arm, making a beeline past Simon, who looks as startled and lost as the last time he'd properly sat at the Walkers' table.  Kieren doesn't stop till he's close enough to throw the book down beside Jem on the sofa.

"Kieren," Simon says, close on his heels, but Kieren doesn't turn to look at him.  "Kier, it's _okay_."

"Come on, then," Kieren says, challenging, refusing to look away from Jem's tearstained face.  "You've gone and made her Ophelia, yeah, and then try to claim you don't understand the text?  Why don't we make it the graveyard scene while we're at it?  You’d make a great Laertes."

Jem's eyes flick down to the dog-eared packet of photocopies in her lap, and then back up at Kieren, defiant.  "I think I _will_ read Laertes, now you mention it," she says, flipping through the packet, and then holds it out past Kieren's arm so Simon can have a look.  "I like this scene better.  You can read Horatio, can't you?" she asks, and Simon, nodding dumbly, just shrugs by way of agreement.

"Fine," Kieren says, picking the Complete Works back up, and thumbs through.  "Where is it?"

"Act Five, Scene Two, you numpty," Jem says, smirking as Simon hands the packet back to her.

"Right," says Kieren, slowly, his eyes scanning the page as Simon's hands fall on his shoulders.

"Maybe we shouldn't do this," says Simon, his voice low.  "You're both angry, _you_ shouldn't—"

"I do love a spot of dinner theatre," interjects Sue, brightly, and comes into the room with her plate in hand.  Steve isn't far behind her, and they trundle into the vacant arm-chairs across from the sofa.

"Damn it, Mum, I thought we'd have time to rehearse," Jem complains loudly.  "Dad, you tell her."

"I don't know," says Steve, evenly, cutting a slice of parsnip.  "How 'bout you improvise?  Lads?"

"Yeah, Dad," Kieren sighs, scratching the page with his nail.  " _Whatever_.  Where do we start, Jem?"

"Listen, Kier," Simon whispers again, urgently this time, more muted, "do you _know_ what she's—"

"Just stay as you are, and I'll sit here," Jem instructs them.  "Impromptu means your actors stand about," she explains to her parents, "like that time you went to see that lot record _Cabin Pressure_ down in London.  You liked that, Mum, didn't you?" she says, straightening her spine, and glances down to where the packet's open in her lap.  " _Ahem_.  He is justly served," reads Jem, deepening her voice to what's intended to be comic effect, but Kieren's blood, or what's returned of it, runs cold.  "It is a poison temper'd by himself," she continues, and then mouths panto-like as an aside, _That means the king!_ "Exchange forgiveness with me, noble Hamlet: mine and my father's death come not upon thee, nor thine on me."

"That's your cue," mutters Simon, helplessly, his grasp on Kieren's shoulders tightening.

Jem looks up at him with fluttering, affected eyes.  Her reddened sclera and running mascara ruin any farcical effect she could _possibly_ have hoped for; she gags and lets her eyes roll back, her hand in Kieren's going limp, and suddenly Kieren can scarcely focus on the words in front of him.

Kieren drops her hand, which has gone—not real, not _real_ , he tells himself—hot and slippery in his grasp, dripping with blood.  "Heaven make thee free of it," he gasps, and it's too late to stop the tears, the ugly charcoal-tinged tears he'd so stoically held back at Amy's grave.  "I follow thee. I am dead, Horatio," he says, turning his head to look at Simon, and something curled deep and wounded in the cave of his chest lurches _painfully_ to the fore.  "You that look pale and tremble at this chance, that are but mutes or audience to this act, had I—"

"Kieren," Simon whispers, his eyes gone wide with panic, " _Kieren_ , for the love of God, can you _hear_ what I'm telling you, _stop_ —"

"Had I but _time_ ," Kieren insists, releasing his shaky breath on a bitter laugh in lieu of a sob, "O, I could tell _you_ —but let it be," he says, gentling, because Jem has opened her eyes again, blinking at him in naked dismay.  "Horatio, I _am_ dead," he tells Simon, shaking his head.  "Thou livest.  Report me and my cause aright to the unsatisfied," he pleads, and that is the _wrong_ moment to look at Steve.

"Oh, _son_ ," says his father, even as his flatware hits the floor and his plate tips.  "I didn't think—"

"Never believe it," Simon cuts in, reassuring; it's the right line put to wrong use, but, under the circumstances, it is the _rightest use imaginable_.

Steve is sobbing behind his hand. Kieren wants Simon to keep reaching for his father, so he breaks from Simon's grasp and goes trembling to Jem.

"I'm sorry, Kier, I'm sorry," she whimpers over and over again, and Kieren's not so lost in the clearing fog of what's past that he can't wrap her tightly in his arms and promise he's _never_ going to let her go. "I'm stressed and I'm angry and I'm so _jealous_ —"

"Don't you walk by the Calder alone, Jem," he whispers, stroking her hair.  "Don't you even dare."


End file.
